by Neal Asher
Just then there came into the room a smell of burning flesh and metal, and another smell—so strong it was almost a taste—of cloves.
‘How long until proton guns enable?’
‘Forty seconds. Mark.’
Suddenly the scene revealed was of the shuttle bay. The mutilated Dragon came on-camera. Its jaws opened and slammed forwards. The camera went out.
‘Not too happy, I would say,’ said Thorn.
‘General idea,’ muttered Blegg.
‘Dragon has isolation chamber. Detaching. Flooding drop-shaft with crash-foam. Massive air loss. Crash-foam not holding. Closing shuttle-bay doors.’
The screen showed the shuttle bay from another angle. The bay doors were labouring to close against a hailstorm of crash-foam and wreckage. The debris was hurtling out into the vacuum.
‘Pull away, maximum acceleration. Fire proton guns when ready.’
Dragon receded from the doors. A purple flash ignited space and a charred hole fifty metres across appeared in its scaled hide. Cormac watched for a moment, then removed a black cylinder-section from his pocket, with a miniconsole on it. He poised his finger over a flashing touch-plate.
‘That’s a—’ began Thorn.
‘Remote detonator, yes,’ said Cormac impatiently, then asked, ‘Distance, Hubris?’
‘One kilometre. Mark. One and one half kilometres . . .
The proton guns fired again, but this time the purple flare was not on Dragon’s surface. It ignited over an invisible membrane and did no damage.
‘Dragon preparing to return fire.’
They could all see the ripples crossing its surface.
‘Distance?’
‘Three kilometres. Mark. Four and a half. Mark. Six kilo—Fire imminent! Fire imminent!’
Cormac pressed his finger down. Everything under that membrane turned to light. The membrane broke and the screens whited out. Hubris bucked and they were flung to the floor.
Epilogue
The bleak sun inched above the horizon and a new day fell across the ruination that surrounded the complex. Above the corroded-bronze sky Samarkand was gaining yet another feature; a spreading orbital cloud of frozen gobbets of flesh, pieces of bone and metal . . . Dragon remains. Hubris, poised geostationary above the complex, watched this cloud spread with an aesthetic appreciation only available to AIs having the full spectrum of senses it possessed. With another fraction of its sensorium it listened in through the computer of the departing mini-shuttle. In a completely disconnected way it knew that it too was being used in this way, by a mind as many orders of magnitude greater than it, than it was of the computer.
* * *
‘It woulda looked at everything y’said and did,’ said Blegg, then he chugged down a large cup of whisky and grinned wickedly.
With his own cup resting on his knee, Cormac stared down at the floor of the shuttle with the unseeing gaze of exhaustion. He was finding it difficult to grasp that his plans had paid off.
Eventually he spoke. ‘I guess it’s a case of knowing who your enemies are.’
Blegg looked at the bottom of his cup in annoyance, took out his flask, shook it, and then smiled benevolently. Cormac had never known anyone like him. He probably knew exactly what had happened, yet managed to appear completely unconcerned. A strange man was Blegg. He rested his head back and closed his eyes.
It seemed only a minute had passed before Blegg was shaking him awake. He looked up at the screen and saw that the shuttle was coming down on the edge of the complex, in a storm of CO2 crystals. He waited until he felt it touch down before he spoke.
‘Aiden, ask Samarkand II how the stage-two runcible’s coming along.’
The Golem got up from his pilot’s chair as if he had not heard. Samarkand II answered the question over the shuttle’s speakers.
‘The stage-two runcible is undergoing rough alignment. This will take approximately fifteen minutes. I will fine-tune it in one tenth of a second.’
If ever an AI had been guilty of conceit, Samarkand II was that one, thought Cormac. He moved to the door of the shuttle as a covered walkway attached itself like a lamprey. As he waited at the door for the air beyond to heat up, he turned back to Blegg.
‘You know, they have a carrying pouch inside them. Dragon knew everything that was going on here. It just grabbed them to make sure they were internally clear of the mycelium. It didn’t want us finding that.’
‘Y’not wrong. That where the CTD went?’
‘Yeah, but it had to cut away some material to get it in.’
The door thumped open like the door to a fridge, and they entered the walkway. Soon they were passing by the milling technicians, and Samarkand II’s voice droned over the speakers.
‘Stage-two runcible alignment test commencing . . . Test complete. Still too far out for insertion of five-D cusp.’
The larger containment sphere of the stage-two runcible now rested under a large dome with floorspace all around. The open door to the containment sphere was big enough for heavy transport sleds. Cormac recognized the familiar figure of Chaline next to the door. He walked up to her and saw she was directing the adjustment of machinery under the black glass floor inside: the same kind of machinery as he had destroyed in the stage-one runcible. Dislodged floor panels were resting up against the wall of the sphere.
‘Much longer?’ he asked.
She watched him suspiciously for a moment, and then relented. ‘A few minutes.’ She gestured at the work going on. ‘This is only cosmetic. One more test and the spoon’ll be in.’
Cormac left her to it and walked back to Blegg. The Japanese was refilling his flask from a drinks dispenser. How he managed that, Cormac had no idea; the dispensers here did not normally dispense alcohol. When the flask was full they turned and watched as esoteric adjustments were made and Samarkand II gave notice of the next test. Inside the sphere they saw rainbows shimmering between the wide-apart horns of the runcible. They climbed to the roof of the sphere, penetrated it, then to the roof of the dome and through that. It was a beautiful sight. Cormac remembered the first time he had seen this with the stage-one runcible: the tower of rainbows reaching into the sky. It still did not fail to impress him.
‘Spoon’s in. All yours, Samarkand II,’ said Chaline with glee.
Cormac said, ‘Samarkand II, inform Viridian that access is now allowable from there.’
‘Viridian has already been informed.’
‘You mistake me. Inform Viridian that Cormac says access from there is now allowable.’
There was a pause, and when Samarkand II spoke again it sounded as surprised as an AI could be. ‘Viridian tells me your message is affirmed . . . Transmission coming through.’
At that moment the runcible flickered and Cento stepped through. He had been rebuilt, partially. His missing arm had been replaced with one the colour of brass. He held it up and grinned triumphantly as he approached. Aiden greeted him with a perfect emulation of human happiness. The Golem came over to join Cormac and Blegg.
‘Transmission coming through: energy anomalies,’ Samarkand II announced.
The cusp of the runcible flared with light, and a glass dragon stepped through. There were screams of surprise, some screams of fear. The dome seemed full of light.
‘There is no need for panic,’ said Samarkand II—and those who had screamed felt a little foolish, perhaps.
The Maker came down from the dais on limbs of fire, scanning the place with its three glass eyes. It seemed to Cormac it should dwell in that tower of rainbows he had seen. It seemed wholly mythical.
‘Now, I didn’t expect to see him,’ he said.
He pointed to the blackly silhouetted dracoman walking before the alien, like a slave—or its tamer. Soon the Maker reached them, and now they could see the workings of its body, like a glassy display of flasks and tubes in a chemistry laboratory. It spoke, and its voice seemed to draw sound from every direction and precipitate it out in gusting words.
&nb
sp; ‘Cormac,’ it said, and its terrifying head bowed down to peer at him.
‘I thought you were going to use Scar for the blast,’ said Cormac.
The voice came again, its elements seemingly drawn from the people who were gathering round to watch, to gawp. One brave soul reached out to touch, then snatched his hand back before it was burnt, or before he touched something ineffable.
‘Scar is an advantage,’ said the Maker.
Staring into light, Cormac suddenly felt even more tired. He looked round at Blegg, but the Japanese seemed preoccupied, his expression opaque.
* * *
Through Samarkand II and through Hubris, Earth Central watched the culmination of events with small facets of itself. Eventually it opened a communication channel that it still did not wholly understand.
CONCLUSION: SATISFACTORY?
Within certain limitations, Hal.
Explain.
Dragon died here, but Dragon still lives.
—Dragon dialogues—
DELAY.
DELAY.
DELAY.
Satisfactory conclusion deferred—projection.
The AI closed off that odd channel and once again focused all its attention through Hubris. The ship AI continued to watch the spreading cloud, fascinated by the pattern of its dispersal, and analysing it continuously. The remains of Dragon stretched out and out, and still following the creature’s original course, they drew a glittering ring around the planet. Some of this debris fell into atmosphere. Hubris detected strange proteins and exotic metals. Some of these substances had been made to withstand extremes of heat and force, so certain fragments were not burning up on reentry.
On Samarkand it was raining Dragon scales.
From Neal Asher
Gridlinked
The Skinner
Cowl
Brass Man
Praise for
Gridlinked
“I couldn’t put it down. I even ended up reading it twice. Highly recommended.”
—Hull Daily Mail
“A boiling brew of red-in-tooth-and-claw turbo-cyberpunk.”
—SFX
“Neal Asher makes the move to the big league with Gridlinked … an SF Bond as might be written by Tarantino … [a] fast-moving and enjoyable tale.”
—Starburst magazine
“There’s invention and wit here, a firm command of a complex plot.”
—Time Out
“Gritty: a word you don’t often hear in connection with science fiction—more’s the pity. If all novels could employ this atmosphere as well as Gridlinked does, I wish that all authors followed Neal Asher’s lead.”
—SFRevu.com
Praise for Neal Asher
“We’ll all soon be seeing how future authors compare to Asher. I look forward to seeing Asher receive the success he is clearly destined for.”
SFRevu.com
“A bright new talent, brimming with fresh ideas.”
—The Alien Online
“If you like SF and you want some good, old fashioned seat of the pants storytelling then Asher is the hot ticket.”
—The Third Alternative magazine
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously.
Gridlinked
Copyright © 2001 by Neal Asher
All rights reserved.
Originally published in Great Britain in 2001 by Macmillan Publishers Ltd.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
eISBN 9781429910392
First eBook Edition : January 2011
First U.S. Edition: August 2003
First Mass Market Edition: September 2004